Ignis
by QueenSoledad
Summary: The dress was far too short to be appropriate, but, at least, it is white. T for suggestive themes, nothing explicit.


Bare toes curl into the dirt, reveling in the warmth that licks and quivers just short of her exposed legs. Morinthe wonders if, like the spirits of the fade, the light in the ring of stones has a soul, if it longs as she does.

She shivers; the dress is risque by Andrastian standards, the thin white fabric falls just above her knees, revealing tanned muscular legs. Her people are barely hanging on; the need to keep the population going far out-ranks Morinthe wears it as a challenge, though not against her pious comrades.

It must be horribly bitter, she thinks, staring into the bright oranges, reds, and yellows as they dance. The fire can't touch them, so instead it mocks them, draws the objects of its desires close with its beauty to spite them for their need to flee and to fear.

She realizes she is being childish. The anger, the impotent rage she feels, not even necessarily at its incitor, would fade within weeks- she isn't the kind of person who could hold a grudge. But for now, while it is hot and curling within her gut, she would punish him for making her love him, want him when he was so utterly unattainable. She too would dance and burn, and he would be the one to watch on, unable to reach out for fear of being wounded by her light yet again.

And he does watch, Morinthe feels it like an electrical shock along her spine as she joins in the celebration, laughing and joking with the party goers as though she is listening, as though this isn't all a game. She has never partaken in Santinalla, which the Chantry members use as their excuse for her bare feet and inappropriate behavior. Shoulders bare despite the snow on the ground, the orange light and shadows thrown by the fire pit outside she knows suit dark skin and the bright green of her eyes. Morinthe's smile is cruel, and, though she never turns his way, she means it for him entirely.

As she downs another tankard, she feels her face and chest flush with warmth. Morinthe has already consumed too much, but with each drink her hesitance is washed further away from her cloudy thoughts.

Bull's acidic horse piss probably won't put hair on her chest, but it does make her bolder. As they pass around gifts- a pair of gloves in a box full of grasshoppers from Sera, a carving of Skyhold made from a dragon's tooth from Josephine, and many more- she meets his eyes every now and again. Morinthe says nothing to him, aside from brief one word responses, but her face says more. 'Look at me,' she jeers silently. 'Because I know you can't look away.'

Morinthe dances with most of her Inner Circle, regardless of their ability or willingness. Vivienne is far more practiced than she, as expected, though her movements are rigid and look rehearsed, Verric is surprisingly better than she would've thought even when slurring half of his words, but Dorian is the most remarkably skilled (and he makes certain that everyone knows it). Each time she trades partners, Morinthe is certain to send him a glance. 'I know you want to,' the fire calls. 'But do you dare?'

As the night wears on, Morinthe begins to lose track of the game. She can't tell faces apart, and everything is a dark blur. Bare feet slap against hardwood, trailing dirt behind them. She is pushed and shoved by many, though she does not know nor care who. She has become a fish, swimming in alcohol and her own unchecked libido.

She knows, looking from face to face, that any number of her soldiers would volunteer on the spot to share the evening with their Inquisitor, some poor nameless body to keep her bed warm and her mind distracted. Morinthe doesn't want it, though. Meaningless sex is about as interesting to her as the extravagant offerings of the nobles looking to get on her good side- hollow and utterly uninviting.

Morinthe flares and curls with delight only at the spectre-like memories of rough, but long fingers trailing along

She half collapsed on the bar, face warm as she laughs at a joke she didn't hear from the blonde, boyish soldier she's playing with. Morinthe wonders what kind of look would be on his face in the morning if she slept with this hapless fool tonight, wonders if he'd care. It's too cold hearted, she decides, to use this soldier who'd pledged his life to the Inquisition just to spite another man.

Tonight, though, she is bold, bitterly angry, and dangerously lovely. Morinthe decides that she will face the consequences in the morning and lets the boy think he is leading her away from the bar. And, perhaps, he is more in control. She certain that in a few hours she will have forgotten her own name, much less the reason she is going through with this at all.

You'll hate yourself tomorrow, Reason says in the voice of Josephine. She shoos it away. This is what she wants now, to the Void with tomorrow.

Reason counters- is it really now? Morinthe does not need to silence it again, for the beer does so for her.

Her feet are dragging along stones now- for she is indeed being half dragged. Morinthe is far too gone to have any idea of where they are going at this point. She guesses that they are in the main hall, but it is too dark to see now that everyone has either gone to the inn or to sleep. She does see a light eventually through the murky waters pooling inside of her pupils. It's blue, calm and cool, but it brings back memories that are scalding and dangerous- nights spent reclining on a couch with warm breaths crawling up and down her neck.

The electrical tingling of nerves under the thin, white cloth shoots up and down her body again, and she squeezes the boyish soldier's hand, urging him forward when he stops. Perhaps she can close her eyes, trick her mind into thinking they are not the nameless boy's hands.

He isn't paying attention, though. He's arguing with someone, Morinthe realizes. She can't see who it is and, honestly, she loses track of which one is the boy. It's dark, her eyes are heavy, and soon the world starts to spin. As their voices start to raise, her feet fall out from under her and she begins to tip forward.

Warmth- it is heavenly, and she realizes for the first time that she has been bitterly cold all evening. Strong arms wrap around her, catching and steadying her before she hits the floor. She leans into it, burying her face in the other's body heat.

There is still arguing, yelling now, but eventually there is a victor. One of them, whoever he is, walks away, and the other sweeps her feet out from under her and carries her away. Her skirt precariously hikes up, but she doesn't mind. Anything to bring her bare flesh closer to the heat. Regardless of who it is, there was no way this isn't going to hurt eventually, so why should it matter? It is likely that Corypheus will kill them all soon anyway.

They walk up the stairs, she thinks they're stairs anyway, and soon enough she is deposited on her plush bed. Warmth moves to leave, and so she latches on to any part of it, sinking in her fingernails and dragging it down with her. Morinthe refuses to spend another night alone in her cold room where the memories haunt her. She doesn't want to think about spending hours lying beside a man that won't look at her now.

Warmth nearly escapes her, but she finds its lips and captures it entirely. Morinthe is nearly struck speechless with the realization that it wasn't a clumsy boy's hands running along the smooth skin beneath her skirt. They are practiced- they know what stokes her flames.

She is enraptured with every touch, fleeting as they all are. The boy had been a utility, a tool, but this is real, this is not meaningless. With his mouth and hands he punishes her for every flirtatious glance, every time her skirt had been lifted up dangerously high as she danced, and for every second she'd spent leading on the boy.

She licks and leaps at him, eating everything that this moment is until there is nothing left. The longing is, for a time at least, fulfilled, and the fire is allowed to indulge.

The soldier, while not as familiar with her body, would've been able to physically serve the same function. It would not have been anywhere close to satisfying, however. Morinthe does not long for sex, it is him that she wants, and she is struck with the knowledge that soon he will be gone again, and the hole that is already there will be that much bigger.

When he is gone, and she knew it would happen eventually, Morinthe curls into a ball, wrapping herself into a cocoon in the sheets. The tears, just like his hands, are so agonizingly warm.

They are both burning for each other, and, as fires usually do when touched, they have hurt each other yet again.

* * *

**A/N: Just a shorty, trying a different sort of style on for size. I don't think I'm going to switch over to 'vague and confusing drunken stupor' permanently, but it was a fun experiment none the less. I often see the whole 'Lavellan and Solas do it while she drunk off her ass' but it's always from the perspective of the sober person. Dunno, just thought I'd do a bit of a reversal. I think I am going to write a follow up to this one, in a more standard style. I find present tense makes things like touch and other sensory stuff more intense and up close, which is why I chose it for this.**

**I don't own anything!**


End file.
